The story of a mother

Historien om en moder

A mother sat by her little child; she was very sad, for she feared it would die. It was quite pale, and its little eyes were closed, and sometimes it drew a heavy deep breath, almost like a sigh; and then the mother gazed more sadly than ever on the poor little creature.
Some one knocked at the door, and a poor old man walked in. He was wrapped in something that looked like a great horse-cloth; and he required it truly to keep him warm, for it was cold winter; the country everywhere lay covered with snow and ice, and the wind blew so sharply that it cut one's face.
The little child had dozed off to sleep for a moment, and the mother, seeing that the old man shivered with the cold, rose and placed a small mug of beer on the stove to warm for him. The old man sat and rocked the cradle; and the mother seated herself on a chair near him, and looked at her sick child who still breathed heavily, and took hold of its little hand.
"You think I shall keep him, do you not?" she said. "Our all-merciful God will surely not take him away from me."
The old man, who was indeed Death himself, nodded his head in a peculiar manner, which might have signified either Yes, or No; and the mother cast down her eyes, while the tears rolled down her cheeks. Then her head became heavy, for she had not closed her eyes for three days and nights, and she slept, but only for a moment. Shivering with cold, she started up and looked round the room. The old man was gone, and her child– it was gone too!– the old man had taken it with him. In the corner of the room the old clock began to strike; "whirr" went the chains, the heavy weight sank to the ground, and the clock stopped; and the poor mother rushed out of the house calling for her child.
Out in the snow sat a woman in long black garments, and she said to the mother, "Death has been with you in your room. I saw him hastening away with your little child; he strides faster than the wind, and never brings back what he has taken away."
"Only tell me which way he has gone," said the mother; "tell me the way, I will find him."
"I know the way," said the woman in the black garments; "but before I tell you, you must sing to me all the songs that you have sung to your child; I love these songs, I have heard them before. I am Night, and I saw your tears flow as you sang."
"I will sing them all to you," said the mother; "but do not detain me now. I must overtake him, and find my child."
But Night sat silent and still. Then the mother wept and sang, and wrung her hands. And there were many songs, and yet even more tears; till at length Night said, "Go to the right, into the dark forest of fir-trees; for I saw Death take that road with your little child."
Within the wood the mother came to cross roads, and she knew not which to take. Just by stood a thorn-bush; it had neither leaf nor flower, for it was the cold winter time, and icicles hung on the branches.
"Have you not seen Death go by, with my little child?" she asked.
"Yes," replied the thorn-bush; "but I will not tell you which way he has taken until you have warmed me in your bosom. I am freezing to death here, and turning to ice."
Then she pressed the bramble to her bosom quite close, so that it might be thawed, and the thorns pierced her flesh, and great drops of blood flowed; but the bramble shot forth fresh green leaves, and they became flowers on the cold winter's night, so warm is the heart of a sorrowing mother. Then the bramble-bush told her the path she must take.
She came at length to a great lake, on which there was neither ship nor boat to be seen. The lake was not frozen sufficiently for her to pass over on the ice, nor was it open enough for her to wade through; and yet she must cross it, if she wished to find her child. Then she laid herself down to drink up the water of the lake, which was of course impossible for any human being to do; but the bereaved mother thought that perhaps a miracle might take place to help her.
"You will never succeed in this," said the lake; "let us make an agreement together which will be better. I love to collect pearls, and your eyes are the purest I have ever seen. If you will weep those eyes away in tears into my waters, then I will take you to the large hothouse where Death dwells and rears flowers and trees, every one of which is a human life."
"Oh, what would I not give to reach my child!" said the weeping mother; and as she still continued to weep, her eyes fell into the depths of the lake, and became two costly pearls. Then the lake lifted her up, and wafted her across to the opposite shore as if she were on a swing, where stood a wonderful building many miles in length. No one could tell whether it was a mountain covered with forests and full of caves, or whether it had been built. But the poor mother could not see, for she had wept her eyes into the lake.
"Where shall I find Death, who went away with my little child?" she asked.
"He has not arrived here yet," said an old gray-haired woman, who was walking about, and watering Death's hothouse. "How have you found your way here? and who helped you?"
"God has helped me," she replied. "He is merciful; will you not be merciful too? Where shall I find my little child?"
"I did not know the child," said the old woman; "and you are blind. Many flowers and trees have faded to-night, and Death will soon come to transplant them. You know already that every human being has a life-tree or a life-flower, just as may be ordained for him. They look like other plants; but they have hearts that beat. Children's hearts also beat: from that you may perhaps be able to recognize your child. But what will you give me, if I tell you what more you will have to do?"
"I have nothing to give," said the afflicted mother; "but I would go to the ends of the earth for you."
"I can give you nothing to do for me there," said the old woman; "but you can give me your long black hair. You know yourself that it is beautiful, and it pleases me. You can take my white hair in exchange, which will be something in return."
"Do you ask nothing more than that?" said she. "I will give it to you with pleasure."
And she gave up her beautiful hair, and received in return the white locks of the old woman. Then they went into Death's vast hothouse, where flowers and trees grew together in wonderful profusion. Blooming hyacinths, under glass bells, and peonies, like strong trees. There grew water-plants, some quite fresh, and others looking sickly, which had water-snakes twining round them, and black crabs clinging to their stems. There stood noble palm-trees, oaks, and plantains, and beneath them bloomed thyme and parsley. Each tree and flower had a name; each represented a human life, and belonged to men still living, some in China, others in Greenland, and in all parts of the world. Some large trees had been planted in little pots, so that they were cramped for room, and seemed about to burst the pot to pieces; while many weak little flowers were growing in rich soil, with moss all around them, carefully tended and cared for. The sorrowing mother bent over the little plants, and heard the human heart beating in each, and recognized the beatings of her child's heart among millions of others.
"That is it," she cried, stretching out her hand towards a little crocus-flower which hung down its sickly head.
"Do not touch the flower," exclaimed the old woman; "but place yourself here; and when Death comes– I expect him every minute– do not let him pull up that plant, but threaten him that if he does you will serve the other flowers in the same manner. This will make him afraid; for he must account to God for each of them. None can be uprooted, unless he receives permission to do so."
There rushed through the hothouse a chill of icy coldness, and the blind mother felt that Death had arrived.
"How did you find your way hither?" asked he; "how could you come here faster than I have?"
"I am a mother," she answered.
And Death stretched out his hand towards the delicate little flower; but she held her hands tightly round it, and held it fast at same time, with the most anxious care, lest she should touch one of the leaves. Then Death breathed upon her hands, and she felt his breath colder than the icy wind, and her hands sank down powerless.
"You cannot prevail against me," said Death.
"But a God of mercy can," said she.
"I only do His will," replied Death. "I am his gardener. I take all His flowers and trees, and transplant them into the gardens of Paradise in an unknown land. How they flourish there, and what that garden resembles, I may not tell you."
"Give me back my child," said the mother, weeping and imploring; and she seized two beautiful flowers in her hands, and cried to Death, "I will tear up all your flowers, for I am in despair."
"Do not touch them," said Death. "You say you are unhappy; and would you make another mother as unhappy as yourself?"
"Another mother!" cried the poor woman, setting the flowers free from her hands.
"There are your eyes," said Death. "I fished them up out of the lake for you. They were shining brightly; but I knew not they were yours. Take them back– they are clearer now than before– and then look into the deep well which is close by here. I will tell you the names of the two flowers which you wished to pull up; and you will see the whole future of the human beings they represent, and what you were about to frustrate and destroy."
Then she looked into the well; and it was a glorious sight to behold how one of them became a blessing to the world, and how much happiness and joy it spread around. But she saw that the life of the other was full of care and poverty, misery and woe.
"Both are the will of God," said Death.
"Which is the unhappy flower, and which is the blessed one?" she said.
"That I may not tell you," said Death; "but thus far you may learn, that one of the two flowers represents your own child. It was the fate of your child that you saw,– the future of your own child."
Then the mother screamed aloud with terror, "Which of them belongs to my child? Tell me that. Deliver the unhappy child. Release it from so much misery. Rather take it away. Take it to the kingdom of God. Forget my tears and my entreaties; forget all that I have said or done."
"I do not understand you," said Death. "Will you have your child back? or shall I carry him away to a place that you do not know?"
Then the mother wrung her hands, fell on her knees, and prayed to God, "Grant not my prayers, when they are contrary to Thy will, which at all times must be the best. Oh, hear them not;" and her head sank on her bosom.
Then Death carried away her child to the unknown land.
Der sad en moder hos sit lille barn, hun var så bedrøvet, så bange for at det skulle dø. Det var så blegt, de små øjne havde lukket sig, det trak så sagte vejret, og imellem med et dybt drag ligesom om det sukkede; og moderen så endnu mere sorrigfuld på den lille sjæl.
Da bankede det på døren og der kom en fattig, gammel mand svøbt ligesom i et stort hestedækken, for det varmer, og det trængte han til, det var jo kold vinter; alting udenfor lå med is og sne, og vinden blæste så at det skar i ansigtet.
Og da den gamle mand rystede af kulde, og det lille barn sov et øjeblik, gik moderen hen og satte øl i en lille potte ind i kakkelovnen, at det kunne varmes til ham; og den gamle mand sad og vuggede og moderen satte sig på stolen tæt ved ham, så på sit syge barn der trak så dybt vejret, og løftede den lille hånd.
"Tror du ikke nok at jeg beholder ham?" sagde hun, "Vorherre vil ikke tage ham fra mig!"
Og den gamle mand, der var Døden selv, han nikkede så underligt, det kunne lige så godt betyde ja, som nej. Og moderen så ned i sit skød og tårerne løb hende over kinderne; – hendes hoved blev så tungt, i tre nætter og dage havde hun ikke lukket sit øje, og nu sov hun, men kun et øjeblik, så fór hun op og rystede af kulde: "Hvad er det!" sagde hun og så til alle sider; men den gamle mand var borte og hendes lille barn var borte, han havde taget det med sig; og henne i krogen snurrede og snurrede det gamle ur, det store blylod løb lige ned til gulvet, bum! og så stod også uret stille.
Men den stakkels moder løb ud af huset og råbte på sit barn.
Derude, midt i sneen, sad en kone i lange, sorte klæder og hun sagde: "Døden har været inde i din stue, jeg så han skyndte sig bort med dit lille barn; han går stærkere til end vinden, han bringer aldrig tilbage hvad han tog!"
"Sig mig blot hvad vej han gik!" sagde moderen, "sig mig vejen og jeg skal finde ham!"
"Jeg ved den!" sagde konen i de sorte klæder, "men før jeg siger den må du først synge for mig alle de viser du har sunget for dit barn! jeg holder af dem, jeg har hørt dem før, jeg er Natten, jeg så dine tårer mens du sang dem!"
"Jeg vil synge dem alle, alle!" sagde moderen, "men stands mig ikke at jeg kan nå ham, at jeg kan finde mit barn!"
Men Natten sad stum og stille, da vred moderen sine hænder, sang og græd, og der var mange viser, men endnu flere tårer; og så sagde Natten: "Gå til højre, ind i den mørke granskov, dér så jeg Døden tage vej med dit lille barn!"
Dybt inde i skoven krydsede vejene sig og hun vidste ikke længere hvor hun skulle gå; da stod der en tornebusk, der var hverken blad eller blomst på den, det var jo også i den kolde vintertid og der hang isslag på grenene.
"Har du ikke set Døden gå forbi med mit lille barn?"
"Jo!" sagde tornebusken, "men jeg siger dig ikke hvilken vej han tog, uden at du først vil varme mig op ved dit hjerte! jeg fryser ihjel, jeg bliver til bare is!"
Og hun trykkede tornebusken til sit bryst, så fast, for at den ret kunne opvarmes, og tornene gik lige ind i hendes kød, og hendes blod flød i store dråber, men tornebusken skød friske grønne blade og der kom blomster på i den kolde vinternat, så varmt var der ved en bedrøvet moders hjerte; og tornebusken sagde hende vejen, som hun skulle gå.
Da kom hun til en stor sø, hvor der hverken var skib eller båd. Søen var ikke frosset nok til at den kunne bære hende, og heller ikke åben og lav nok til at hun kunne vade igennem, og over den måtte hun, ville hun finde sit barn; så lagde hun sig ned for at drikke søen ud, og det var jo umuligt for et menneske, men den bedrøvede moder tænkte, at der dog kunne ske et mirakel. –
"Nej, det går aldrig!" sagde søen, "lad os to hellere se at blive enige! jeg holder af at samle på perler og dine øjne er de to klareste jeg har set, vil du græde dem ud til mig, så skal jeg bære dig over til det store drivhus, hvor Døden bor og passer blomster og træer; hver af dem er et menneskeliv!"
"Oh, hvad giver jeg ikke for at komme til mit barn!" sagde den forgrædte moder og hun græd endnu mere og hendes øjne sank ned på havsens bund og blev to kostbare perler, men søen løftede hende, som om hun sad i en gynge, og hun fløj i én svingning til kysten på den anden side, hvor der stod et milebredt, underligt hus, man vidste ikke om det var et bjerg med skov og huler, eller om det var tømret op, men den stakkels moder kunne ikke se det, hun havde jo grædt sine øjne ud.
"Hvor skal jeg finde Døden, som gik med mit lille barn!" sagde hun.
"Her er han ikke kommet endnu!" sagde den gamle gravkone, som gik og skulle passe på Dødens store drivhus. "Hvor har du kunnet finde her hen og hvem har hjulpet dig!"
"Vorherre har hjulpet mig!" sagde hun, "han er barmhjertig og det vil du også være! hvor skal jeg finde mit lille barn!"
"Ja, jeg kender det ikke," sagde konen, "og du kan jo ikke se! – Mange blomster og træer er visnet i nat, Døden vil snart komme og plante dem om! Du ved vel, at hvert menneske har sit livstræ eller sin blomst, således, som nu enhver er indrettet; de ser ud, som andre vækster, men de har hjerteslag; barnehjerte kan også banke! gå efter det, måske kan du kende dit barns; men hvad giver du mig for at sige dig hvad du mere skal gøre!"
"Jeg har ikke noget at give," sagde den bedrøvede moder, "men jeg vil gå for dig til verdens ende!"
"Ja, der har jeg ikke noget at gøre!" sagde konen, "men du kan give mig dit lange sorte hår, du ved nok selv det er kønt, og det kan jeg lide! du skal få mit hvide igen, det er altid noget!"
"Forlanger du ikke andet," sagde hun, "det giver jeg dig med glæde!" Og hun gav hende sit smukke hår og fik den gamles snehvide igen.
Og så gik de ind i Dødens store drivhus, hvor blomster og træer voksede underligt imellem hverandre. Der stod fine hyacinter under glasklokker, og der stod store bomstærke pæoner; der voksede vandplanter, nogle så friske, andre halvsyge, vandsnogene lagde sig på dem, og sorte krebs klemte dem om stilken. Der stod dejlige palmetræer, ege og plataner, der stod persille og blomstrende timian; hvert træ og hver blomst havde sit navn, de var hver et menneskeliv, mennesket levede endnu, en i Kina, en i Grønland, rundt omkring i verden. Der var store træer i små potter, så at de stod så forkuede og var færdige ved at sprænge potten, der var også mange steder en lille, kedelig blomst i fed jord, med mos rundt om og dækket og plejet. Men den bedrøvede moder bøjede sig over alle de mindste planter og hørte inden i dem hvor menneskehjertet bankede, og imellem millioner kendte hun sit barns.
"Dér er det!" råbte hun og strakte hånden ud over en lille blå krokus, som hang ganske syg til den ene side.
"Rør ikke ved blomsten!" sagde den gamle kone, "men stil dig her, og når så Døden kommer, jeg venter ham før jeg ved det, lad ham da ikke rykke planten op, og tru du med at du vil gøre det med de andre blomster, så bliver han bange! han skal svare Vorherre til dem, ingen tør rykkes op, før han giver lov."
Med ét susede det iskoldt igennem salen, og den blinde moder kunne mærke, at det var Døden, der kom.
"Hvor har du kunnet finde vej her hen?" spurgte han, "hvor kunne du komme hurtigere end jeg?"
"Jeg er en moder," sagde hun.
Og Døden strakte sin lange hånd hen imod den lille fine blomst, men hun holdt sine hænder fast om den, så tæt, og dog bange for at hun skulle røre ved et af bladene. Da blæste Døden på hendes hænder og hun følte at det var koldere end den kolde vind, og hendes hænder faldt matte ned.
"Du kan dog ikke gøre noget imod mig!" sagde Døden.
"Men det kan Vorherre!" sagde hun.
"Jeg gør kun hvad han vil!" sagde Døden. "Jeg er hans urtegårdsmand! jeg tager alle hans blomster og træer og planter dem ud i den store Paradisets Have i det ubekendte land, men hvorledes de der gror og hvorledes der er, tør jeg ikke sige dig!"
"Giv mig mit barn tilbage!" sagde moderen og græd og bad; med ét greb hun med hver hånd om to smukke blomster tæt ved og råbte til Døden: "Jeg river alle dine blomster af, for jeg er i fortvivlelse!"
"Rør dem ikke!" sagde Døden. "Du siger, at du er så ulykkelig, og nu vil du gøre en anden moder lige så ulykkelig –!"
"En anden moder!" sagde den stakkels kone og slap straks begge blomsterne.
"Dér har du dine øjne," sagde Døden, "jeg har fisket dem op af søen, de skinnede så stærkt; jeg vidste ikke at det var dine; tag dem igen, de er nu klarere end før, se så ned i den dybe brønd tæt ved, jeg skal nævne navnene på de to blomster, du ville rive op og du ser deres hele fremtid, deres hele menneskeliv, ser hvad du ville forstyrre og ødelægge!"
Og hun så ned i brønden; og det var en lyksalighed at se, hvor den ene blev en velsignelse for verden, se hvor megen lykke og glæde der udfoldede sig rundt om. Og hun så den andens liv, og det var sorg og nød, rædsel og elendighed.
"Begge dele er Guds vilje!" sagde Døden.
"Hvilken af dem er ulykkens blomst og hvilken er velsignelsens?" spurgte hun.
"Det siger jeg dig ikke," sagde Døden, "men det skal du vide af mig, at den ene blomst var dit eget barns, det var dit barns skæbne du så, dit eget barns fremtid!"
Da skreg moderen af skræk, "hvilken af dem var mit barn! sig mig det! frels den uskyldige! frels mit barn fra al den elendighed! bær det hellere bort! bær det ind i Guds Rige! glem mine tårer, glem mine bønner og alt, hvad jeg har sagt og gjort!"
"Jeg forstår dig ikke!" sagde Døden. "Vil du have dit barn tilbage, eller skal jeg gå med det derind, hvor du ikke ved!" –
Da vred moderen sine hænder, faldt på sine knæ og bad til Vorherre: "Hør mig ikke, hvor jeg beder imod din vilje, som er den bedste! hør mig ikke! hør mig ikke!"
Og hun bøjede sit hoved ned i sit skød.
Og Døden gik med hendes barn ind i det ubekendte land.